


from longing to skin

by cagetraumasam



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Has Panic Attacks, Alternate Universe - High Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bad Parent Robert Lightwood, Complicated Parent Maryse Lightwood, Cursed Alec Lightwood, Fake Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Emotional Abuse, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, POV Multiple, Revolutionary Magnus, Touch Starved Alec, Touch-starved Alec, court intrigue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cagetraumasam/pseuds/cagetraumasam
Summary: The Lightwoods haven't welcomed the public into their palace in ten years, ever since their eldest son died. So when they decide to open their doors for a traditional masked ball, their subjects are curious, to say the least. Even Magnus, who has never cared for royals, find himself wondering what they possibly could have been hiding for such a time.Still, when Magnus arrives, he expects to dance with Dorothea and to drink wine and silently judge the outfits of those in attendance. He does not expect for Queen Maryse to contact him a fortnight too early to reinforce his wards, or to meet a mysterious man with a charming knack for sincerity. And most of all, he doesn't expect to find out the darkest Lightwood family secret, be forced to remain quiet about it, and fall in love somewhere along the way.ORAlec is a prince who's cursed to not be able to touch anyone, and Magnus is a former revolutionary warlock who is confused and then determined.Hey, guys! I'm really to sorry to say it, but I will no longer be updating this fic due to personal reasons that I would rather not get into. But I still care about you all very much, and I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors. <3





	1. A Masked Ball

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Here are a couple of note-worthy things before we get started:
> 
> The title was taken from a poem called 'Mission' by Leonard Cohen, and is probably taken somewhat out of context, but I really like the line.
> 
> I've added all the tags that I think are going to apply, but I'll add more when they arise. Same goes for character tags.
> 
> I've given this an explicit rating because there will be at least one sex scene (of a very consensual and very sweet nature), but it's not in the first chapter. 
> 
> This was beta'd by the wonderful Desirée, who can be found @alecisgay on tumblr.
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to mention this upon first posting, but I'm not on a strict schedule. I want to give Desirée as much time as needed to look over it, and also I'm in school, so that has to take a priority right now. I'm hoping to post weekly, but I can't promise that'll always happen. Thanks for your understanding and patience!
> 
> EDIT 2: I've changed the spacing of this story because all the extra space was bothering me! Sorry for any confusion; it's still the same story, all I change was the spacing and a few grammatical errors.
> 
> EDIT 3: GOD I'M SORRY. I CHANGED THE PART ABOUT DOT ONLY BEING A BABY AT THE END OF THE WAR BECAUSE I REALIZED IT DIDN'T MAKE SENSE WITH MY TIMELINE /AT ALL./  
> EDIT 4: I'VE ALSO HAD TO ADD A LINE ABOUT MAGNUS HAVING NEVER BEEN INSIDE THE CASTLE IN THE LAST TEN YEARS, BUT HE HAS BEEN /TO/ IT. SORRY IM TERRIBLE  
> That's it for now! I hope you enjoy!

There’s a breeze in the air, the sun’s sinking into the horizon, and Magnus is striding his way into a castle. It’s the perfect sort of day for revolution.

 _Well, it would have been, anyway,_ Magnus thinks rather bitterly. The fact of the matter is that even if the revolution _was_ still going, which it is most decidedly _not_ , there are too few warlocks left who haven’t gone into hiding. There are too few people left who aren’t afraid to try for change.

But it’s nice to dream.

The Lightwoods haven’t welcomed the public into their palace in some ten years. It was understandable at first, when their son passed shortly after his thirteenth birthday. Magnus supposes they needed the privacy for their grief. He held no love for the royal family, of course, but he wasn’t a monster. The boy had only been a child and death took him too soon.

Now, though, the natural curiosity of civilians is piqued, for why would the Lightwoods shut themselves away for so long if they didn’t have something to hide besides their mourning? Magnus tries not to involve himself with the affairs of these sorts, not after the way the warlocks had been treated, but even he must admit to having an interest in knowing the reason for their secrecy. He himself has been to the castle in recent years, for the purpose of putting up wards for the royal family, but he hasn't been inside.

Perhaps that’s why when his good friend Dot all but begged him to accompany her to the ball tonight, Magnus agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. After all, he doesn’t make a habit of attending this sort of function often; he vastly prefers the company and, indeed, the parties of those warlocks he _does_ know to be brave enough to not govern themselves with as much discretion as the rest.

Magnus isn’t entirely sure which of the categories he might happen to fall under. He’d like to think of himself as courageous—he came here tonight, only to be surrounded by people he knows despise him, did he not? At any rate, he’s not in hiding.

Yet something like shame curls deep inside of him as he remembers the final days of the revolution. Oh, he’d hid then, under Camille’s advice. He’d stood idly by as his people were slaughtered, as his best friend was…

Regret often floods him when he thinks back to those days, but there’s nothing he can do to change any of that now.

Camille was something undefinable. She had loved with a ferocity he knew not how to measure, nor how to tame. She was like a storm; beautiful, always, but dangerous as well. In those final days, she’d done something she’d never done before; she practically begged him to hide away with her. She told him it would be nothing short of suicide if he didn’t. He’d never seen her scared like that, so he complied, in the hopes of making her happy.

It wasn’t enough. Nothing ever was with her.

“Magnus? Are you alright?” Dot asks from his side as they walk through the ballroom entrance doors, unlinking their arms to look at him. It effectively jolts him out of his reverie.

“Quite alright, Dorothea,” he says, though he’s sure that the smile on his lips doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s glad that the rest of his face is covered up; masked balls are good for something at least.

Magnus loves Dorothea; he really does. She’s been a good friend to him throughout the years. But she’s excitable; she’s not cautious enough. She behaves exactly in the way that would have gotten her killed back in the old days.

He knows she doesn’t understand, and it’s hardly her fault. He’d been over three hundred years when the revolution had begun; she’d been barely thirteen the year it had ended. She's seen horrors, of course, horors no one should ever see, much less endure. But she has an optimism that Magnus just can't find in himself; not after the way he fought. The way he lost. Dot takes unnecessary risks, like performing magic in public, where anyone could see. It’s not her fault, not at all, but she just can't understand, and part of him wished that she could. Or that someone who could was with them.

“Is Catarina coming?” he asks, trying not to sound as though he _needs_ her to be there, even though he’s pretty sure he does.

“No; she said that she had a client, and also that she wouldn’t come if the king himself ordered her to. Then she called him something I shouldn’t like to repeat,” Dot says, smiling slightly.

Magnus sighs. It was a long shot, to be sure, but he had hoped.

“I see Clary and Jocelyn, we should go say hello,” Dot says.

“How can you tell? Everyone has masks on.”

“Clary’s hair,” Dot giggles, and even Magnus can’t help a grin, but he shakes his head all the same.

“You go; it’s better that Jocelyn and I don’t start anything here.”

Jocelyn and he have a complicated relationship. Long ago, they had been friendly, if not friends. But that was before she’d given countless names up. Before she’d allowed so many to be killed simply because she was scared.

Dot nods, grimacing. She’s never been okay with what Jocelyn did, but she makes excuses for her nonetheless. She leaves Magnus to go over to them, and Magnus sighs again.

He supposes he’ll just have to make due on his own for awhile.

He’s looking around, observing the people, drinking and dancing and laughing, all so happy and free. Not burdened by memories of the past.

As Magnus’ eyes roam the room, he catches sight of a tall figure not far from where he stands. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking around the room much in the same way that Magnus is. He can’t see most of the man’s expression, for he’s wearing a mask, same as everyone else, but it stops just above his mouth, which is set in a deep frown. And his eyes look so very tired.

But the most interesting thing about this man is his hands; or rather, what he’s wearing on them. It’s customary to wear gloves to these things, of course, but usually they’re white and made of silk. The gloves this man wears seem to be made of leather and are, like everything else he’s wearing, black. Magnus can appreciate a bold fashion choice, but somehow, this doesn’t strike him as being one.

Before he can even make a step toward the man, however, a hand is placed on his arm.

“Magnus Bane,” a sharp voice says, and he whips around. There’s only one person that voice could belong to.

“Your Majesty,” he greets her, taking a shallow bow as he does so. She scoffs, and though she’s wearing a mask, Magnus can see the frown lines etched into her face. It’s been years since he’s been this close to her, but Maryse doesn’t seem to have changed one bit.

“Let’s move past the polite pretenses and niceties, Magnus. I need to speak with you.”

“Speak all you wish, Maryse,” he says, shrugging innocently when she glares at him through the holes of her mask. “What? You said you wished to avoid pretense. Very well, then, I won’t pretend I have any respect for you or your title.”

“I should think you’d be more careful with the things you say to the Queen of the land you live in, Magnus. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you… disloyal, after all,” she says. The threat is thinly veiled, but Magnus picks up on it. He’s known Maryse too long and in too many ways not to.

“Forgive me, your Majesty,” he sighs. “I’m afraid I’m feeling a bit under the weather, and I’m not thinking quite clearly. The weather of late has been simply _dreadful._ But tell me, how can I assist you?”

“The wards of the castle need strengthening again.”

Magnus furrows his eyebrows. “I strengthened them only a fortnight ago; surely they’ve held up? Unless… unless someone has damaged them?”

Maryse looks around as she answers, in a hiss, “Keep your voice down, will you? We don’t know how they were damaged, only that they were. Will you do it?”

“Well, I suppose I could… for the right price, of course.”

Maryse narrows her eyes at him. “We already paid you too much last time!”

“Hm, well, it’s quite the dilemma we have here. You need your wards strengthened, but doing magic for the Queen is tricky business. Surely you don’t want it to get out that—?”

“Fine!” she snaps. “Meet me tomorrow, and we’ll discuss payment then.”

Magnus watches, satisfied, as she storms away. She’s certainly not the only one who knows how to hide a threat in innocent-sounding words.

“You want to be careful, talking to the Queen like that.”

Magnus turns to see the tall figure he’d been about to approach looking at him, arms still crossed but walking toward him now rather than leaning against the wall.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“She could make your life hell, if she wanted. I’m sure you know what she’s capable of.”

Magnus takes a moment to truly appreciate the man standing before him. He’s only a little taller than Magnus, and he has dark, unruly hair, as well as intense hazel eyes that look like they could see right through anyone. His jaw is strong and a little angular, and Magnus just _knows_ he must be handsome beneath that mask. He’s the kind of person that Magnus used to like to try to impress.

“I’m not scared of her. And there’s no need to worry for my well-being, I assure you; I can take care of myself,” he grins, turning his charm on. It’ll never go anywhere, anyways, but a little flirtation has never hurt anybody.

The man smiles back, though it doesn’t quite reach those gorgeous eyes of his. His eyes roam over Magnus, appreciative, and Magnus can’t help but preen a little. He may not care for balls like these, but he’d be damned if he didn’t dress well for it. He’s dressed in a deep purple, with a white cravat. It’s certainly not what most of the people here are wearing, but he looks good and he knows it.

“I believe that.”

Magnus is finding _himself_ charmed, now. He’s never known anyone, especially not anyone he might find at a ball like this one, to speak with such earnest fondness. It makes his heart skip a beat.

“I appreciate your faith in me. You seem fairly capable yourself,” Magnus drawls, returning the mysterious man’s approving once-over, “so you might imagine I’m a bit surprised to find you standing alone. Don’t care much for balls?”

The man laughs, and _gods,_ that’s a sound. It’s quiet but full of something cherishable. Like an angel.

“I suppose not, no.”

“Then why did you come?”

“My—my cousin, Princess Isabelle, insisted.”

Magnus tries not to frown. He’s never heard of any cousin of the Lightwoods, but then, he supposes he wouldn’t have. They’re not a very forthcoming family, after all. He glances at the man in a new light this time. He doesn’t exactly look the part of royalty; he’s wearing nice clothes, but none of the latest fashions. Magnus knows that he should stop with the innuendo and the flirting, now; the man wasn’t lying when he said he Maryse could make his life a living hell.

Magnus opens his mouth to excuse himself, but all that comes out is,

“You’re visiting, then?”

The man shakes his head, then pauses to think, looking conflicted. “Well, I suppose you could call it that. It’s a sort of indefinite visitation, you see. I’ve fallen rather ill, and my parents thought it best I come here; there’s more fresh air in this kingdom.”

Magnus nods. “I’m sorry to hear about your ailment. If there’s anything I can do to assist—”

“I appreciate it, but I’m afraid there’s nothing anyone can do for me at this point,” the man says with a faraway look in his eyes. Magnus finds himself wishing, for a moment, that he could see the rest of this man’s features, that he could tell what he’s thinking. There’s something so sad in his eyes; he’s a bit of a conundrum. One moment, he’s being genuine and forthright, and Magnus dares to think he might be flirting back—and the next he’s completely closed off.

“Well, there is something I could do.”

“Oh?”

“I could dance with you,” Magnus says, feeling bold as he holds out a hand. The man stares at it, but doesn’t take it. “It might liven your spirit.”

Slowly, the other man backs away. “I—I can’t.”

Magnus is taken aback for a  moment. He’s not used to putting himself back there, not these days, and the rejection stings a bit. But he understands; for a man to be seen dancing with another man in that manner is frowned upon, especially for someone as high status as this young man must be.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t, that’s not—I’m sorry, it’s not you, really, I just can’t.”

Even now, Magnus finds himself charmed by the words of the man. He’d been so self-assured moments ago, and now he’s tripping over his words. He can’t decide whether it’s adorable or disconcerting. “I understand,” he says, even though he doesn’t. If that’s not it, then what’s the problem?

Magnus turns to leave, but before he goes, the man calls out,

“I never caught your name?”

Magnus pauses, and answers over his shoulder. “Magnus. Magnus Bane. And you?”

“Ale—Alec. Everyone calls me Alec.”

Magnus finally turns to him once more and bows. “Well, then, until we meet again, _Alec_ ,” he says before leaving to go find Dot, somewhat hurriedly. Something about Alec’s story doesn’t make sense. He certainly doesn’t look the part of a man who’s fallen ill, not from what Magnus could see, anyway. But it’s of no matter to him, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s not likely that Alec has any real interest in him, being born of a royal family, Magnus doubts they’ll actually be seeing each other again.

Little does he realize that Alec stares after him for as long as he possibly can, sighs when he’s out of sight, and leaves the ball early. He’s pretty sure that meeting Magnus was the highlight of his night, and he doesn’t want to obscure the memory.

 

Alec isn’t sure how late it is when the knock on his door startles him awake. He hadn’t even bothered blowing out the candle at his bedside, though it’s starting to burn out on its own. Still, as it is, there’s a faint warm glow that lights up his room just enough that it’s acceptable to have company. He closes the book in his lap.

“Come in,” he says in a hoarse voice, and the door creaks open.

“Hey, big brother,” Isabelle smiles. “You left the ball before dinner was served, so I brought you some of your favorites from the kitchen,” she says, holding out the tray toward him. He smiles at her and reaches to take it; just in time, he sees his bare thumb hovering less than inch away from her hand and they both pull back at the same time, tray clattering to the floor.

“Sorry,” they say at the same time, and Alec shakes his head.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, searching frantically around the room. “I shouldn’t have taken my gloves off. I just didn’t think I’d be seeing anyone for the rest of the night.”

Isabelle nods in understanding. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, either, you know,” she tries to meet his gaze, but he refused to level their eyes. “It’s _not_ ,” she insists.

“Maybe it’s not my fault that I’m… _cursed_ ,” he spits it out like it’s a dirty word, “but if I was stronger, I’d be able to fight it.”

“That’s not how magic works. You _know_ that, big brother.”

“Thank you for the dinner,” he says, even though it still lies forgotten on the ground.

Isabelle sighs and gets up. “I love you, Alec.”

She’s shut the door behind her before he can manage to move past the tears stuck in his throat enough to answer. “Love you too, Iz.”

And he does. He wasn’t lying when he told Magnus there was no one who could help him. If love was enough to break a curse, the love he and Izzy have for each other ought to do it. But Izzy’s right; magic works in its own mysterious way, and so it’s not enough. And nothing ever will be. Alec just has to find a way to be okay with that.

He lies back down again, ignoring the food on his floor. He’ll clean it up tomorrow, maybe give it to Church, the strange stray that likes to roam their castle. Alec closes his eyes, and starts counting backward from one hundred. His brain is so constantly on alert that he can never fall asleep right away; this is the only way he knows to do it. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll have dreamless sleep tonight… maybe… maybe…

 

_“Alexander! What happened?” his mother is leaning over him, taking in the frightened look on his face as she runs his hand over his hair. “What’s wrong?”_

_"A servant girl, she, she, she’s dead!” Alexander sobs out as he clutches at her other hand. “I killed her!”_

_"What? Alexander, why on earth would you—?”_

_“I didn’t mean to! We were… were playing a game and when I touched her shoulder she just dropped to the floor and died! Am I going to be executed?”_

 " _Of course not, Alexander,” his mother says. She looks like she’s thinking._

_“But that’s what happens to murderers.” Maryse says nothing for a moment, almost as though she didn’t really hear him._

 " _Alexander, where did this happen?”_

_“The… the throne room, we were playing and no one was in there and—”_

_“I need you to show me. Now.”_

_He gulps, but nods. He’s a Lightwood, which means he always has to be prepared to do what needs to be done. Even if it means seeing that horribly lifeless body again. Even if… even if…_

 

Alec wakes up, gasping for breath, and hears something loud that he can’t place outside of his bedroom.

He looks out the window; it’s bright, if a little overcast. It’s not quite midday yet, then.

Slowly, as though he’s moving through syrup, Alec manages to get up. He stretches his arms wide, looks over to his wardrobe, and picks the first set of clean clothes that he sees. It’s not as though anyone’s going to _see_ him anyways. He’ll be lucky if he even sees Izzy or Jace for lunch; they’re busy with their duties and lessons. He finished his lessons a couple of years ago, now. He’d gone through all the basic training required of royal children, and then some advanced lessons, as well.

As for duties, well, it’s not as though he can sign legal papers with _his_ name, or speak to the villagers who come looking for counsel. As far as they’re concerned, Alexander Lightwood died ten years ago.

No, he spends most of his time reading these days. He rarely even leaves his room; he hates seeing that pitying look that the servants who have been let in on the secret give him. But it’s been almost a day since he’s eaten any proper food, and his stomach is growling at him for it, so he figures he better go to the kitchens and get something. He grabs the tray that Isabelle dropped last night and leaves, not expecting to see anybody. It’s the time of day where the servants are busiest, but that’s on this floor. His is the only bedroom on this level, and he doesn’t allow anyone other than his family into it. Izzy and Jace will be at their lessons by now, and his mother and father no doubt have endless meetings with the council today. That’s why he’s so surprised to see—

“Magnus?” It’s a little hard to tell, given that the first they spoke, they’d both been wearing masks, but there’s no mistaking that smile, even if it is a little strained.

“Ah, Alec, just the person I was looking for.”

“Me?” he asks. Then, “Magnus, what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was strengthening the wards as per the Queen’s request, and something dawned on me.”

“Okay? Why were you looking for me?”

Magnus eyes him up and down, now without the flirtatious gaze of the man at the ball but instead in an appraising of way, as though he’s not quite sure what to make of Alec, or whether he’s to be trusted. “I suppose I was just wondering… who exactly knows that you’re not dead, Alexander?”

Alec blinks. Shit. _Shit_.


	2. An Explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, friends! Sorry that this chapter took a little bit longer than I expected. Just a couple of things before we get started:
> 
> 1\. I had to go back and make some edits to the first chapter, as I realized a few things didn't quite line up with the story I was telling. Details about what changed can be found at the notes on the beginning of the first chapter - it's not anything super significant, but it does impact the story.
> 
> 2\. Secondly, in this chapter, Alec details the story of why he faked his death. While nothing is terribly explicit, I do consider the way Robert and Maryse handled the situation to be abusive. If that's something that's going to be triggering for you, please be cautious. If you need to skip over this chapter, or even stop reading altogether, I completely understand. This chapter is pretty dialogue heavy and is mostly just Magnus and Alec talking, so you should be able to safely skip over it without missing any plot, though you will miss quite a bit of backstory.
> 
> 3\. I also changed the formatting from what it was initially, as I realized I didn't like how much space was between the paragraphs.
> 
> 4\. I FORGOT A HUGE TRIGGER WARNING: ALEC HAS A PANIC ATTACK AT THE BEGINNING OF THE CHAPTER
> 
> 5\. Because I'm the Worst (TM), I also forgot to give credit to my wonderful beta, who can be found @alecisgay on tumblr.
> 
> That's all for now. I hope you njoy!

Magnus isn’t quite sure what exactly he’s thinking the moment he confronts Alec. All he knows is that he’s angry. The Lightwoods have been garnering sympathy and support from the whole kingdom—or most of it, anyways—for ten years, and now it turns out that their son isn’t even dead, that they were just pretending. It’s a twisted kind of ploy; a despicable manipulation.

Of course, he knows logically that, in all likelihood, it isn’t their son’s fault. He doubts that, as a child, Alexander volunteered to sign his life away. But Maryse nor Robert aren’t anywhere to be seen, and logic has no place in Magnus’ heart at the current moment. He needs someone to yell at. This is too much. It’s all just too much.

The other man seems to be having a similar thought process. Magnus, perhaps unfairly, expects him to yell, to threaten, to insult. But what he doesn’t expect is for the man to slowly back away, wide-eyed, toward his bedroom door, not taking his eyes off Magnus until he reaches the threshold of his bedroom. He doesn’t expect the other man to turn on his heel, looking scared.

The man makes a weak attempt to slam his door shut, but it’s to no avail; it ricochets back to where it had been. Magnus can see, from the gap between the door and the wall, that Alexander’s movements are clumsy and convulsive, which strikes Magnus as odd—at the ball, he’d seemed coordinated; confident at the very least. All of Magnus’ anger slowly melts away into concern, and he glances between the door and the spot where Alec had stood moments before, wondering what he should do.

He hears a raw, pained noise from inside the room, and sees the other man hunched over the bed. This isn’t what he’d planned for it at all; it’s not the dramatic confrontation he’d imagined. He’s almost certain that Alexander is crying in there.

Resolving that he shouldn’t let this continue, if he’s really the kind-hearted person he tries to be, Magnus cautiously approaches. It feels strange crossing the boundary between a hall and someone’s bedroom without permission, but Alec doesn’t seem to be in a state where he can easily speak at the moment. Magnus can apologize later, if need be.

As he comes closer, Magnus recognizes the sounds coming from Alexander not as cries, but as dry, aborted breaths.

“Alexander?” Magnus asks, tentative. He slowly tries to reach out a hand to the other man’s shoulder, which causes him to jerk away, looking distinctly more panicked. Magnus raises his hands up in a sort of surrender motion. “Alright, I won’t touch you. I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

Alec looks around, eyes a little wild, before shaking his head in denial.

“You’re not breathing properly,” Magnus says, kneeling down beside him, though a good few inches away. Alec shifts himself even farther away from Magnus, who sighs. “Can you look at me? Try to follow my breathing,” he adds, taking in a long, slow breath for emphasis, before exhaling again. He does it a few more times before Alexander is able to join, but after several moments, his breathing calms and he looks more like himself again. That is, until realization dawns on his face, by which point he looks mortified.

“Oh my—I’m sorry. You shouldn't have had to see me like that. I do apologize,” Alexander says nervously, wringing his hands where they’re still clasped on the bed. He shoots up suddenly, wooden boards on the floors creaking as his knees lift off of them, as though embarrassed, and it’s all Magnus can do not to laugh. Somehow, he doesn’t think it would go entirely appreciated at the moment.

“Oh, not at all, darling,” Magnus responds as he dusts off his pant-clad knees from where’d he’d been kneeling, before turning to wink at Alexander, whose cheeks go slightly pinker.

“How’d you… how’d you even get in here?” Alec asks, his breathing better but still not quite as even as it could be. “No one’s allowed.”

“I’m a warlock, darling. I could’ve been entering this palace for years if I really wanted to; luckily for you lot, I had no desire.”

Alec seems to think over this vague answer and accepts it without further questioning.

“There’s, uh, there’s a chair,’’ Alec motions toward a beautifully carved, mahogany seat stationed in front of desk laden with books and papers. “If you want to—I mean, I could try to explain—let’s sit,’’ Alexander finishes feebly. Magnus, hiding his smile, manages a curt nod and walks over to his seat while Alexander closes the door he’d failed to slam shut before.

They’re silent as Alec positions himself on the edge of the bed, opposite to Magnus, and he opens his mouth, and then closes it, and then opens it again, looking almost confused.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admits finally, in a soft voice.

Magnus nods, thoughtful, but hesitates before asking. ”Would it upset you too much, were I to ask again about the people who know you’re not dead?”

He feels guilty asking, because it’s clear that it’s hard for Alec to talk about, but he wants to understand. It just doesn’t make sense any sense that the royal family would decide that their perfectly healthy, eldest son should pretend to be dead for the rest of his life. None at all.

Luckily, Alec doesn’t start losing his breath again at the mention of it, though he does still look thoroughly shaken. He nods, resolute, as he pulls one of his legs away from the ground and tucks it under his other leg, which still dangles off the bed. Magnus notes with mild interest that his hands are clad in black leather once more. Doesn’t he ever take those gloves off?

“My family,” Alexander finally answers, slow and careful, as though he’s divulging forbidden words and it’s difficult to get them out. “My sister, Isabelle, my mother and father, and Ma…” Alec trails off, eyes become distant. It only takes him a moment to return to himself, but Magnus cannot help but notice that his jaw is clenched and his eyes sad. Magnus almost presses the issue, but then thinks better of it. Alexander will tell him what he can; nothing more, nothing less. “And my brother. Jace.”

Magnus is, of course, aware of Jace Wayland’s history—a boy, orphaned by the war, left on the doorstep of the palace, his combat prowess known only second to his reputation to fall in and out of love nearly every fortnight. He’d been passed around from orphanage to orphanage before someone had enough sense to take him somewhere he’d be protected. No one knew who had so kindly deposited him on the steps of the palace; the rumor mill on the streets could only go so far.

The Lightwoods took him in only shortly after the supposed time of Alexander’s death—the only known case of a civilian entering the castle in the last decade. Before last night’s ball, that is. At the time, Magnus had been conflicted; had the Lightwoods’ grief made them kinder? Or were they selfishly seeking a replacement for their eldest son, a numbing project for their grief?

Magnus finds it strange that Alec refers to him as his brother, for the Lightwoods aren’t usually too keen on people who lack royal blood, but he supposes it makes sense. That’s how they’ve been raised to see each other for the last ten years; and indeed, that’s how they feel about one another.

“Anyone else?”

“Most of the servants. A few of the new hires do think I’m a sickly cousin come for fresh air.”

“That story didn’t add up; the air here is terribly polluted,” Magnus says, almost sure that he’s not imagining the corners of his own mouth quirking. He doesn’t mean to flirt, exactly; but he can hardly help it. Alexander is so… so something that he can’t quite put his finger on, and he’s so close, and he’s not hating Magnus for wanting to hear the truth. The least Magnus can do is show a little appreciation.

“Oh, is that how you figured it out?” Alec asks, and Magnus knows that he’s not imagining that smirk. Well, fine then. If Alec wants to play dirty, then they can play dirty. Magnus gives a small chuckle, feeling surprisingly light and free, the way he did those few moments at the ball last night. It scares him to think that he might care for Alec in that way, that this is what it’s supposed to be like. But he leans into it; it’s been so long since he’s felt like this; so happy in such a specific way, even considering the rather morbid topic Alexander is so kindly detailing for him.

“I’m a smart man, Alexander,” Magnus all but purrs, expecting the other man to play along with him. But the lighter tone their conversation had taken on for a moment becomes dreary again. Alexander’s face falls, eyes looking a little unfocused, and it reminds Magnus of the sullen conversation that they had been having not a moment before. He clears his throat, doing his best to remember himself. “Are you alright? Did I say something to upset you?”

“No—no, of course not. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Magnus presses gently, careful to keep his voice soft.

“Not many—well, that is to say, no one, um, they don’t really. They don’t call me that,” Alexander says, sounding sheepish.

“Call you what?” Magnus furrows his eyebrows, confused.

“Alexander,” he says softly, the name sounding foreign on his tongue.

Magnus is confused. “But that’s your name, is it not?”

“It was,” Alec agrees, looking back up at Magnus. “But… but not anymore. My parents… well, my father, really, he said that it would be too dangerous to be called by the name given to me at birth, since the whole of the kingdom thought me dead. So I started going by a childhood nickname… oh, no, don’t look at me like that,” Alexander begs, alarmed by the horror in Magnus’ eyes. “It really isn’t so bad, and I don’t mind ‘Alec.’ It was what Izzy called me when she was learning to talk. She couldn’t pronounce the ‘x’ in Alexander,” he adds, smiling fondly at the mention of his younger sister.

Magnus wracks his brain, trying to think of what he knows of her, so that perhaps they could talk about that instead. But all that’s coming up is horror. If this is how the Lightwoods treat the people they claim to love, no wonder they were willing to use such brutish tactics, such evil means, on the people they most despised. It’s hardly any wonder that Valentine did the things that he did—some of which on the Lightwoods orders, before he disgraced himself in their eyes.

He doesn’t want to think about Valentine. The war is over, Valentine is dead, and there’s really nothing more to be said on the subject. But he doesn’t want to think about Alec’s childhood, either, or how it was ripped away from him. It must’ve been so hard for Alexander—names are inherently tied to a person’s identity, after all. Magnus would know.

“Would you like for me to call you ‘Alec’ then?” Magnus has barely finished asking the question when Alec responds with a vehement,

“No! I mean, ah,” Alexander says as Magnus lifts an eyebrow at him, teasing but not quite to the point of flirting again. Not yet. Very quietly, face tinted pink, he adds, “I like it when you call me ‘Alexander.’” His voice is almost breathless, but not in the panicked way of before. He looks… uncertain. Not quite shy, but definitely unsure of himself.

It dawns on Magnus that Alexander probably hasn’t had a decent friendship outside of his family in the last ten years, much less formed anything resembling a romantic relationship.

It’s hard to be open with people when you’ve shut yourself off from the rest of the world. Magnus understands; his last relationship was with Camille, years ago, now, and look at how that turned out. No wonder Alexander is nervous.

“Very well, Alexander,” Magnus says with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Alec breathes out, “for your kindness. This isn’t an easy situation to explain.”

“Of course. But I’m afraid I’m still a little… unclear on what exactly the situation is, Alexander. Why did your parents deem it necessary for you to fake your death, down to the very last detail of your name?”

Alexander widens his eyes, but he doesn’t look surprised. It looks as though this is the question he’s been dreading most. He opens and closes his mouth several times, and stutters out a few syllables in an attempt to answer. Magnus does his best not rush him; he doesn’t think of himself as a patient man, but for this man, he can try to be one.

Finally, Alexander manages to get out a coherent sentence. “It’s become I’m cursed,” he says, eyeing Magnus as though he starts expecting him to be surprised or confused. Magnus tries not to be offended, but he is a warlock. He thinks that perhaps he deserves a little more credit.

“What does the curse do?” Magnus asks, and Alexander looks relieved that Magnus isn’t highly distressed at the news.

“It kills anyone that I touch.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Oh, Alexander.

Magnus must admit that his first thought beyond plain sympathy for Alexander is a selfish one; disappointment. He’ll never be able to run his hands through that dark, unruly hair. He’ll never get to trace a bare expanse of Alexander’s skin with a gentle finger. They’ll never get to kiss. Gods, what a shame. Unless—

“That’s why you wear the gloves?” Magnus makes a gesture toward them, and Alec balls his hands into fists, nodding. Magnus hums and doesn’t say anything for several minutes. He’s thinking very hard about which warlocks he knows that are powerful enough to do that kind of deeply complex curse work. He can’t think of anyone with that kind of skill who’s still alive, apart from Catarina and himself. Neither of them would ever dream of touching such a malevolent spell; for the most part, they stick away from curses altogether. Even Ragnor, who delighted in making royals suffer through little deeds of magic, would have found this appalling.

“Does it have to be skin to skin contact?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wear those gloves; do they allow you to touch people?”

It’s a long and painful minute before Alexander answers. “The gloves don’t always work. I suppose it’s because the magic is very powerful.”

Magnus nods, biting down his disappointment once more. Still, they might be able to figure out a way to break it. “That would make sense. I suppose that’s why you declined to dance with me at the ball?”

“That, and, well…”

“I’m a man?” Magnus guesses, remembering his thoughts from last night, when he had assumed the other man was just uncomfortable being seen dancing with a man. Alexander shrugs, looking embarrassed.

“It’s just that my parents don’t know.”

“I understand,” Magnus says, not unkind. “Alexander, I know this must be difficult, and I doubt I really have any right to ask, but—”

“You want to know how I found out about the curse.”

“Only if that’s alright with you.”

“I was ten,” Alec begins, more quickly than Magnus would have expected. He supposes that Alexander thinks it will be easier to say the faster that it goes. He closes his eyes after a moment. “I was ten, and I was playing some silly game with one of the servant girls. She was my friend. We were chasing each other around, and I… I tapped her shoulder, and she fell to the ground. When I knelt down beside her, she wasn’t breathing. There was no blood, there were no wounds. She didn’t even cry out in pain before she fell. She just... died.”

The pain in Alexander’s voice breaks Magnus’ heart. If he didn’t think it would help, he wouldn’t ask these terrible questions. But he needs to know, if he’s to find a way to rid Alexander of this horrid curse—which he has become determined to do, in the span of a few short minutes. No one should have to live this way.

“And that was the only death caused by the curse?” Magnus asks, looking down to inspect his rings, fully expecting the answer to be yes.

“No.”

Magnus jerks his head back up to find the other man’s eyes open once more. “Pardon?”

Alexander sighs, a long and suffering sound. “I killed my brother, too. My little brother.”

“Alexander, you must listen to me. You didn’t kill anyone. The curse did. Whoever cast the curse did.” Alec shakes his head, as though about to argue, but then Magnus realizes something. “Your little brother? But Jace is—”

“Not Jace,” Alec corrects. “His name was Max. He was born a year after my ‘death.’”

Understanding slowly dawns on Magnus. “They hid him, too. But why?”

“It wasn’t very long after the war,” Alexander answers. Magnus winces internally; in all of the chaos of the conversation, he’d forgotten that Alexander had been alive when the war was going on. Forgotten that he probably took his parents stance on warlocks.

 _But he’s sitting here, talking to me_ , Magnus admits to himself. He’s different.

Alec continues on. “My father, he was afraid that someone would come after Max, too. He was so afraid of someone cursing him, with Max being the new heir. Obviously, with people thinking I was dead and with my… predicament, they couldn’t expect me to lead anymore,” Alec says. Magnus notes a tone of something in his voice. It’s not quite bitterness; perhaps regret? “And, though Isabelle is the smartest person I know and could easily rule this kingdom better than anyone, custom dictates that a woman cannot lead by herself unless she is the widow of a king.”

Magnus rolls his eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I agree,” Alexander says. “But it’s tradition, and “tradition must be adhered to,” according to my mother.”

Magnus is impressed; he doesn’t know what to expect of Alexander anymore; the other man keeps surprising him, even though they’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours.

“What about Jace?”

“He’s not of royal blood. There would be an uprising. I’m not saying it’s right,” he adds, seeing the look on Magnus’ face, “but that’s the way it is. Max was the golden boy of our family before he could even walk or talk. My parents hired a servant specifically to look after him, and there wasn’t a moment he was out of her sight until he was five. But then his caretaker fell ill and died a day before my parents were due to visit a neighboring kingdom. There wasn’t time to hire anyone else, so they made Izzy promise to look after him. And she did, for days. She did more than a sixteen year old should be expected to. So I wasn’t surprised when I saw her asleep in her room when I went to bid her goodnight. I decided to let her sleep, and to check on Max myself.

I knew something was wrong the moment I arrived. He was shivering, terribly, but covered in sweat. I’d never seen anything like it, but I knew it could be fatal. So I reached out to grab him. I was wearing my gloves, so I thought it would alright. But… it wasn’t,” Alexander finishes, out of breath and despondent after his long-winded, miserable story.

“But that could have been the illness he was suffering from, Alexander!”

The other man shakes his head. “No. I know it was me. He had been shaking violently, but he went limp the moment I touched him. That could only have been me.”

Magnus doesn’t know what to say at that, except for “I’m sorry.” So that’s what he says. “I can’t believe your parents would do this; no child deserves to go through that.”

Alexander shrugs again, looking uncomfortable. His voice is far more guarded than it has been when he speaks.“You sound like my sister.”

“Perhaps she has a point,” Magnus says.

“No,” Alexander shakes his head, fervent and insistent. “My parents aren’t perfect, I know that, but they made the right call. Izzy just can’t see that. Look,” he adds when he sees Magnus’ horrified expression, voice harsher than it has been all morning, “It may seem extreme, what they did, but it was necessary. “

Magnus tries not to be too upset at Alexander’s sudden change in demeanor. He can only imagine that talking about this all morning has left him feeling vulnerable, and when people are vulnerable, sometimes they grow thorns. Or put up walls. Magnus can understand; he’s been there. So as much as Alexander might hope that his surly attitude will keep Magnus out, Magnus finds it easy to read the message between the lines: Alexander thinks he deserves this, somehow. He actually believes he deserved to be locked up for the last ten years. He might even believe he deserves the curse. Magnus’ heart aches for him.

“Alexander…”

But before Magnus can think of what to say, of what might convince Alexander that he doesn’t deserve this mess, there’s a knock on the door and then it begins to open. Alexander’s eyes go wild. Magnus, despite not being anywhere near him, feels the need to shift his chair farther away from him. He sighs in relief when he sees it’s not Maryse or Robert—in part because he knows that they’d have him thrown in jail if they knew he found out their family secret, and in part because he feels that if it had been either of them, he would have had to yell at them for the way they’ve been treating their son.

Still, though, someone is going to know that he knows, and that’s not good.

“Alec?” a young man with blonde hair asks. “Isabelle is making something for lunch, would you like to go pretend to—oh. Oh!”

Magnus isn’t entirely sure what’s happening; one moment he’s sitting there, simply living his life, and the next moment, there’s a sword being drawn.

“Don’t worry, Alec, I’ll rid you of this fiend!” the young man—Jace, Magnus presumes—as he draws nearer to where Magnus sits. Magnus stands, abrupt, and feels the magic gather and coil at his fingertips. He doesn’t plan to hurt the man, but he also doesn’t plan to be hurt, either. He’ll protect himself by the means available to him—and if that means using magic in front of two members of the royal family, so be it.

“Jace!” Alec shouts, confirming Magnus’ suspicions.”Jace, stop it!”

Jace looks confused at the order but does what Alexander says nonetheless. “Don’t you know who this is? This is Magnus Bane, Alec, he’s a warlock, he fought in the revolution!”

“If you know all that, then surely you could have figured out that our mother has been hiring him to casts wards on our place for years. He’s no threat.”

Magnus stands up a little straighter, as though to say I’m not a threat as long as you stop waving that goddamn sword at me. Jace looks back and forth between Alec and Magnus, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation, before finally lowering his sword.

“But, Alec, no one’s supposed to—I mean, does he know?” Jace asks, with a skeptic glance toward Magnus. Alec nods, once, and Jace curses under his breath.

“Gods, Alec, your parents will be so upset—”

“Our parents,” Alec corrects him. “And not if you don’t tell them.” Jace’s face is full of conflicted confusion.

“Alec, my brother, you know I’d do anything for you, but I’m just not sure this is something I can hide from them. Not after everything they’ve done for me.”

Magnus watches as Alexander bites his lip, looking guilty, before saying, “If you tell them about this, I’ll tell them about the girl I saw you talking to at the ball last night. She certainly didn’t look the part of a noblewoman; I doubt Mother and Father would be too happy.”

Jace looks stricken. He takes a deep breath, clearly weighing his options, before saying: “Fine, then,” and storming out of the room, resembling a petulant teenager. Magnus has to remind himself that it wasn’t so long ago that these men were teenagers. He resolves to cut them some slack, however small.

“He seemed upset,” Magnus says quietly, a little off-put by how willing Alexander was to throw his own brother and a commoner under the bus.

“He’ll get over it,” Alec sighs, pulling his gaze away from where it had been watching Jace storm off. “I would never actually do it,” he adds quickly. “It just really wouldn’t end well if my parents found at that you knew and, well…”

“I understand,” Magnus says, feeling relieved to know that Alexander isn’t terribly callous. He’s overly-cautious, but that’s to be expected, Magnus supposes. “I do have a question for you, though.”

“I’ll strive to answer honestly, as long as I’m able.”

“Well, I just found it rather interesting that you mentioned to Jace that I’ve been doing the wards here for years, seeing as I only told you I was here to do them today.”

“Oh, well,” Alexander says, the expression on his face making it clear he’s doing his best to think up a lie. “I overheard you talking with my mother at the ball, and it sounded as though it was something she’d paid you to do before.”

“What happened to “I’ll strive to answer honestly?”” Magnus asks, feeling a little petulant himself, now.

“Fine,” Alexander sighs. “The truth is that I know you’ve been doing the wards for years because I’ve been damaging them for years.”

“What?”

“The wards aren’t to keep people out. They’re to keep me in. But, for the last few years, I’ve been damaging them every few fortnights to get out and get some… well, not “fresh” air, like you said, this place is horribly polluted. But sometimes I need a change of scenery. I don’t go anywhere that has lots of people,” Alec adds hastily, and Magnus feels his heart positively shatter for this man. Alexander seems to think he’s actually doing something wrong by daring to go outside. Magnus wishes he could tell Maryse and Robert exactly how he feels about them.

“How do you break through them? Not to brag, but my magic is quite powerful,” he adds, feeling slightly concerned that someone has been able to get through it so easily for years.

“Oh, it is,” Alexander assures him. “I can’t do it right away. I have to wait until it’s been a while since you strengthened them. Then, I… well,” he laughs, running his hand through his hair. “I throw quills and things at the place where you usually strengthen them until they wear down. I have to keep at it for a couple of days before the wards are weak enough to let me through. A quill here, a book there, as I’m walking to Izzy’s room.”

“How often do you do this?”

“Not often. Every few fortnights, like I said. It just… it gets unbearable here, sometimes,” Alec adds, looking down at his gloved hands. Since Jace came in, they’ve been standing only a few inches apart, and Magnus would give anything to close that space for an embrace. But he can’t. Not yet. “You’re not angry, are you?”

Magnus laughs. “Why would I be angry? That’s very clever of you, Alexander. In fact,” Magnus adds, a mischievous glint in his eyes as an idea forms in his mind. “What do you say we go on a little adventure right now?”

Alexander grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy! Come shout at me @starlightswait on tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Thanks so much for reading. I always, always appreciate comments and do my best to reply back to them. If you want to come shout at and/or with me, hit me up on tumblr @starlightswait! Thanks again!


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